deepundergroundpoetry.com

Where Was I The Night Of The 25th...?

         
Gaelic groves          
shawl your swollen            
irises - dense - dead          
& darkly deep;          
Wintered Zion          
polar nights          
of pine          
wreath like ice          
'round a new solstice moon          
           
Matching actually...          
My mom's fake tree,          
no spruce-y          
scent for me          
           
I'll wear            
nothing,          
'cept your emerald T...          
...make it easy...          
           
Sloe & honey hair          
spike 2 shots          
of gin            
gumming my mousey          
mind          
each time you walk near          
           
Gutter lights          
trace the house's            
rambling ranch frame      
like some kind of      
flashing      
flaxen lace    
     
Your palms            
line these  
tenderly clammy       
flushing in company          
with the wallheater's            
blush          
when we become bare          
           
~        
 
It was not          
& entirely was          
the end of nights          
that you weren't            
mine
       
           
         
           
***          
Our anniversary is on the 26th, and I remember Christmas...so well.
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